everybody screams at the end of the world
by fuckin-rodent
Summary: So Buttercup maybe panicked and dragged two kids along with her to endure the end of the world. Along the way numerous laws are broken, morals start to wane, the feel of skulls crunching under her bat becomes easier to accept...and Butch the New Yorker has the ugliest accent she's ever heard. He's good at defending himself, at least. /Zombie Apocalypse AU - so original, I know.
1. chapter one

**RATED M** just in case (there's swearing and most definitely violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)  
 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.):** 9,518

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. i do plan on using POV - if not alternating chapters, then maybe a switch within a chapter...still haven't decided yet.

/no beta (duh.) consistent updates? NO. i just wanted to get this idea out somewhere before my computer mysteriously eats up my files again, so why not let it fester on FFN? whilst i do hope to update this fic soon, i don't count on it. what with my laptop being a total douche and a couple treacherous assignments that i need to crack down on, it's not a guarantee that i'll be able to update anything for a while. though i plan on trying to make it work.

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** two kids and a teenage murderer walk into a bar /or/ the grim satisfaction is something she'll take to her grave...or afterlife?

* * *

In the movies, it's always so... _intense_. For the sake of the plot, it's all a huge blur and by the end of it you're reeling, trying to understand what the fuck just happened. And when it sinks in, it _sinks in_ and you're overwhelmed with sympathy for the ever-so-hurt protagonist. When the protagonist sheds a tear, or lets slip a sob, you can't help but think that they deserve it. They deserve a moment to themselves, even if it's a moment they can't afford. Because the protagonist has been through _oh-so much,_ y'know, they just need a break.

Oh, what she'd do for a fucking break right now.

In the movies, it doesn't look so hard. In the movies, it's all glorified and made more exciting for the sake of an audience. For views, and money, and all that other shit. You don't really think about how the characters are fairing mentally and emotionally. You just know that they're all varying shades of fucked up and are In Need Of Psychiatric Help (TM).

The more Buttercup thinks about it, the more parallels she has to draw. She never thought that, in the midst of the end of the world, she'd be chaperone to the neighbor's kids. Well, the neighbor's daughter and her project partner. They're sweet kids, really, barely reaching nine or ten. Something like that. Honestly, when the news first came out – it wasn't her father Buttercup had worried about, or her step-sister, or her step-mother. It'd been the two little tykes next door in the backyard.

Mainly because they were screaming to high hell. Truly screaming, y'know, that kind of instinctive sound you can't replicate. The fine hairs on her neck had stood on end. She heard it all the way from her bedroom; the attic, renovated specifically to become a bedroom. Soundproofing, insulation, everything.

And they had just been _screaming_.

Not even like words, just incoherent shrieks of sheer terror. It had made Buttercup forget all about her last-minute homework she was supposed to be writing up. Damn, she hadn't even put on shoes, she'd just sprinted into her backyard, jumped the fence and damn near gagged at what she saw.

Sweet Bubbles, Mrs Bennett's girl, was crying. Her screaming was the higher pitch of the pair as they cowered on the trampoline. And there was Mrs Bennett. Dragging herself across the lawn. A gory mess of entrails slewed from her lower half, where her legs should be was only the snapped remains of her spine and more bodily fluids.

Now Buttercup is the kind of girl that can watch open heart surgery while eating pizza. No care in the world, she can sit down with her father, a surgeon, and listen to him go on and on about how the liver blackens with cancer and stomach an entire bowl of Fruit Loops.

She just...never thought she'd have to...see it. In person. With Mrs Bennett dragging herself like that, somehow not dying as she profusely bleeds. Red soaking into her cherished green grass, spilling all over Bubbles' sandpit and the prized petunias in the flower beds. Buttercup had been slack-jawed for maybe a few seconds too long, able to decide which vertebrae she was staring at and how many of the Mrs Bennett's lower ribs had been dislodged in the drag of the woman's intestines.

The kids' screaming, by that point, had become static in the back of her head. Mrs Bennett was far too close to the trampoline, where Boomer was shaking, frozen in place. Bubbles cowered behind him, tears streaming down her face; cheeks and nose rosy, and they were just _screaming, screaming, screaming._

What happened after that had been automatic fight or flight response. Buttercup had sprinted towards the trampoline, where Bubbles then cried, "Buttercup!" It had gained legless Mrs Bennett's attention, therefore causing the woman to claw her way to Buttercup instead. And that's when she'd gotten a better look at her neighbor.

Apart from the obvious mutilation to her lower torso, the woman's eyes were bulging in their sockets. Once summer-sky blue was then a milky gray. Mouth gaped; bloody foam frothing from her lips. Her skin, though naturally pale, took on a sallow quality and _sagged_ from her frame, as if it was melting, but not quite. A bizarre combination of sloughing, yet awfully dried up at the same time. Veins and nerves were visible through her flesh, and her hair was thinning by the second. The more Buttercup tried to take in, the more it just got _worse_.

So she stopped looking and kicked Mrs Bennett's head off.

Well, almost off. Her head snapped backwards with a sickening crack. Enough so that her neck broke, effectively severing the spinal cord.

Still. Probably wasn't the best idea to kill Mrs Bennett in front of two little children. Especially her own daughter. Buttercup still has nightmares, even if she wont admit it to anybody.

Their screaming had continued. By now their throats were hoarse, she could hear it, but it was all background noise. Her eyes had dragged up to look around. By then, it registered that other neighbors had come to see what had happened. The horrified stares of adults bore down at the corpse of Mrs Bennett. To the terrified children, to the numb teenager standing in the middle of the Bennetts' backyard. Buttercup still doesn't know how long they had watched it all go down, but nobody accused her of _murder_ , so.

Did they see Mrs Bennett for the freak show she was?

Buttercup still doesn't really know for sure.

The cops had been called, an ambulance to cart away Mrs Bennett's body, and the whole thing was opened for investigation. Buttercup wasn't charged, as...whatever the fuck had happened was put down as self-defense. Multiple neighbors put in witness reports to back her up.

Then the three kids sat on the front porch while they waited for Mr Bennett to come home. He had been called, notified of the recent events. Requested to come home ASAP. Something like that, this is where her memory gets spotty. Buttercup...couldn't look Bubbles in the eyes. She couldn't look at her at all, just staring out aimlessly to the eerily vacant streets of their humble little neighborhood.

The screaming had stopped, at least.

Boomer, she had learned, that's who Bubbles' project partner was. Boomer Bradly; nine years old, new to town, new to Bubbles' school, and so, her new partner for their art class. He was quiet – wide eyed, in utter shock. Police offered him a bottle of water, one of those shock-blankets that shone too brightly in the afternoon sun while they called for his parents to come pick him up. The Bradlies had been unreachable.

Bubbles had whispered, shaking, curled into Buttercup's side, "That wasn't mommy."

Buttercup blinked; her breathing was too loud, her heartbeat louder, but her words were so quiet. "No, it wasn't."

And that had been it for a while. The investigation had been closed for now. No sign of intruders, or any way that the...detachment of upper and lower body could make sense. They found Mrs Bennett's legs stuck under a heavy shelf in the pantry. Nobody else was in the house, aside from Bubbles and Boomer in the backyard. The only way Mrs Bennett could have suffered mutilation like that would have been...herself. All Buttercup understood is that the specialists were looking into it, at the time.

They know better now.

Mrs Bennett, a nurse in the medical wing of the experimental health facility, had brought an illness back home with her. An illness that multiple facilities in the country were trying to keep under wraps.

But still, it had been unbeknownst to them at the time. There had been a funeral. Buttercup attended, along with both her step-sister Blossom and their parents. The Bennetts and the Garcia-Pritchets had been close since...well, for as long as Buttercup can remember. She and Blossom babysat Bubbles, and still did, up until. Recently. The two neighboring families being close started off because of her father (formally Dr Garcia, currently Dr Garcia-Pritchet after marrying Blossom's mother,) was a doctor in the same clinic Mrs Bennett worked at.

Mr Bennett started canceling the plans the two families would have planned prior. Buttercup can't help but feel guilt twist her insides into knotty messes, even though the man is dead now. She had done that, she had made a bubbly and gregarious man turn reclusive and unsociable. She had done that. With one fell swoop (kick.)

She doesn't remember anything significant happening for the weeks following. Bubbles still came 'round to visit after school on Wednesdays, the days Mr Bennett worked late, and sometimes Boomer came along too. Things were...they weren't _fine_ , but they were quiet. Routine.

Buttercup's never liked routine. There's always something a little _off_ , a little _unnatural_ about routine.

One of the things she never realized she took for granted are Sundays. You see, Sundays are a special day, because that's when her father got up at six in the morning for work. His schedule was Sunday through Thursday, then he had Friday and Saturday off. That's how it worked. And on Sundays, those were the days that Blossom and her mother slept in 'til around ten in the morning.

So Buttercup made it her priority to wake up early enough to see her father off to work. She'll never voice it aloud, but sometimes...it felt like her father wasn't the same man, with his new wife. Of course, Sara Pritchet was a lovely woman, she was Blossom's mother after all, how could she _not_ be? Lovely, that is. Because her step-sister is lovely, and hardworking, and – and – and. Well. You get the idea.

In short: Buttercup made her father lunch for work on Sundays. Six-o-clock Sundays they called them, their special thing. _Their_ special thing. All theirs. A Garcia tradition that she never thought would die. Until it did. But they'd be up with the sun just rising; birds ruffling in the tree outside the kitchen window.

They'd hum along to the radio; always tuned to some old rock station, never anything else. Buttercup was and will forever always be okay with that. She likes rock – all kinds of rock, the classics to the post-modern. But whenever The Killers or The Ramones or The Rolling Stones came on, it always made her smile. Her father, though sophisticated and charming, will always be a rebel at heart. "A mini me, you are," He'd tell her.

Six-o-clock Sundays were a constant. The only thing that wasn't suspiciously routine. Buttercup never thought it would be something that would abruptly stop one day. Maybe the only thing she took for granted.

You see, six-o-clock Sundays are relevant because that's the last time she saw her father. He'd left with a fond hand on her head, ruffling her messy bedhead and a brief, "Go back to bed, kiddo." And she'd gone, "Pfft, whatever, 'Fessor." (She's always called him _Professor_ , it's just always been a little joke between them that Blossom and her mother will never understand. _Professor Utonium,_ like that one tv show she used to adore.)

The last time she saw her father, she hadn't even said, "I love you" or "I'll miss you" or something fucking normal for a child, like, she doesn't know, calling him _dad_ at least once.

So Monday evening rolled around, and her father hadn't come home yet. If her father was staying in _that_ late, he would have called to let someone know. Hell, he would have told her that Sunday morning if he was planning on pulling a double-shift. Her father is a man of precision, he doesn't do things without checking them first.

...Yet, when Sara gasped in the living room, television remote clattering to the floor, Buttercup hadn't been surprised. The news channel droned on about an _incident_ at the experimental health facility. The one that Mrs Bennett had worked at, and the one her father worked at.

Death. Undisclosed information, suspicious excuses, some sort of breakout – left vague, explaining nothing. The faces of people...not killed but, uh, ' _found_ ' dead in the clinic started appearing on screen. The reporter was rattling off names left and right, maybe ten or so _survivors_. Buttercup's step-mother had raised a clenched fist to her chest, "...Survivors?" And there had been heartbreaking hope in her voice.

Buttercup already knew her father's face would appear on screen. In that damn, nonchalant, monotonous voice, the woman on the television read out, "Doctor John Garcia-Pritchet..." Somebody else, another picture on screen, blah blah blah.

But for a brief moment, Buttercup had stared into green eyes and that polite smile that made a dimple appear in his right cheek. His black hair combed to the side, lab coat, name tag, pen in his breast pocket and his reading glasses neatly folded in the collar of his shirt. That's when it sank in, and the only thing she really wrapped her head around was – _no more six-o-clock Sundays._

There – well – the funny thing is, there wasn't even time for a funeral. Blossom was readying for a school trip out of town, an unmissable opportunity and Sara had a business meeting that required a plane to the other end of California, it was all...a mess. And Buttercup didn't _get_ how they could just busy themselves like this. Didn't get it at all – how could they...how could they just act like it wasn't important? Buttercup's father is dead – Sara's _husband_ , the man she _loved_ , and Blossom's father, too. If Blossom didn't view him as that, then a mentor, at least. She knows for a _fact_ that her father was a good man, and if Blossom had a question, he'd do his damn hardest to fucking answer it.

There was no funeral for Buttercup's father...her dad. The Professor. They weren't even allowed to take his body to a crematorium or anything, apparently there was _no body to be recovered_ and she couldn't figure out what that meant. Because she had to walk to school by her father's workplace, you see, and when she dragged her sneakers on the concrete, there was no sign that the building was damaged at all. So why couldn't they have his body, at least? No body to be recovered. _No body to be recovered,_ they said.

God, she was so stupid. The more she thinks about it now, the more obvious it is.

Buttercup's step-mother away on some business trip, and Blossom off to Citiesville, she was alone. It was during this time that Mr Bennett finally emerged from his solitude.

He surprised her by knocking on her door some evening a week later. A bouquet of flowers, a letter of sincere condolence and the man himself there looking like he's on death's doorstep, rather than the Garcia-Pritchet's. Buttercup felt that way too.

She'd invited the man inside. His blond hair was fairer than Bubbles', less of a brilliant gold color, more pale like straw or platinum, she's never been sure. But Mr Bennett is nothing if not a kind man at heart, and he talked with her for a little under thirty minutes and...it felt. Nice. Yeah. Not great, but not _bad_ , either. To just have somebody to distract her for a while from her own grievance. Or struggle to grieve. Buttercup's never been good with feelings.

If she was any kind of florist – like Mrs Bennett, _god_ , Mrs Bennett, she's so sorry – she'd notice that the particular bouquet he brought her were specifically for the loss of a loved one. Though if she did know, it'd probably make her more bitter than reassured.

Before Mr Bennett left, he lingered on the porch step. He'd murmured, "I don't hate you, Buttercup, for what you did. Please forgive yourself." And then he left, and that had been the last Buttercup had heard of him too. His words reacted with her like water and oil. Two separate layers, not mixing, not melting together. _Please forgive yourself._ How can she do that when she can't figure out where to start?

The day after that, the end of the world began.

She went downstairs as normal, left the morning news on while she got ready for school. Sneakers, cut-off shorts, ratty shirt she hasn't washed for a while, bomber jacket. It used to be Mitch's, she's pretty sure. The thought didn't ease the bundle of nerves in her stomach.

Mid-way through a granola bar, she'd paused to watch the neighbors outside the window. There, across the road, was Mr Bennett. Through the blinds, she made out him talking to another neighbor. From this distance she couldn't see much; maybe that old widow? Something Rose? Whatever, she looked _sick_.

Sallow skin, swaying dazedly on the spot, and...Buttercup pried open the window. Mr Bennett was asking if the woman was okay, offering to drive her to the hospital if need be.

The next part happened in the span of four seconds:

The widow snarled, and started choking. A familiar, frothy white-red substance dripped from her mouth. Before either Buttercup or Mr Bennett could say anything, the woman was _lunging_ , and teeth...sunk into...flesh. Gnarled fingers came up to grip the man close, and a strange surge of strength shown through how the itty bitty widow managed to tear her teeth through the man's jugular and make blood splatter everywhere.

More screaming.

Like when you torture something until it makes its vocal chords grate themselves hoarse. Buttercup felt something quietly shift into place; an auto-pilot response. That response was to slam open the front door, hurdle the fence between the gardens and slam open the door. Bubbles startled from the couch, making cereal spill everywhere. "B-Buttercup! Buttercup, what are you -"

And there was Boomer. Thank god for their numerous sleepovers. The children stilled when they heard the screaming from outside. Screaming strangely turning into growls, grunting and groaning, and Buttercup forced it all from her mind. "We're leaving," She stated, grabbing both kids by their tiny wrists and all but dragging them back into her own home. She locked the door, locked the windows, and stared through the blinds and everything felt so numb.

When she turned back to the two blondes, they were once again teary-eyed and trembling. Bubbles broke the silence, already sniffling, "W-Was that my..." She couldn't finish her sentence.

Buttercup decided not to answer, simply stalking up the stairs. She heard little footsteps immediately follow after her. "We're leaving," She repeated. "We're gonna pack some bags, and we're fucking leaving this shitty town." Enough of this bullshit.

From downstairs, the news continued to drone.

"...Discovered an outbreak of a peculiar disease -"

"...Jumping to conclusions...calling it the ' _zombie-virus_ '..."

"Certain states are being declared _quarantined_ -"

She doesn't remember what else the news said, but that had...that had been it. The end of the world confirmed. And she just decided to drag two little children down with her. Fuck. A shuddering breath; then she squared her shoulders, marching into her bedroom and dragging out a suitcase from under her bed.

"What about...what about our cl-clothes?" Boomer murmured. Shy kid, Buttercup got that, but the way he was fiddling with the hem of his shirt said he was _scared_. She got that too. She shrugged, jerking a hand through her hair. A once over said that their current outfits would do. They were both wearing pants at the time, long-sleeve shirts, jackets...good enough.

She shrugged again, "You'll be fine in that." There was no time to sit around and dawdle about dress-up. They needed to get the fuck out of Townsville.

Bubbles made herself at home on Buttercup's bed, hugging maybe the only thing reminiscent of a stuffed animal in her room. Her blankie. The thing she's had since she was, what, five? Ratty around the edges, faded green, all that. Her favorite thing. She sighs, "I'm more worried about food, yeah? Food and drink, to make us last 'til we get outta here."

Boomer visibly paled. "We're leaving?" She nodded. Bubbles hid her face in Buttercup's pillows, her small body wracking with tears. Sympathetic, Buttercup allowed Bubbles to clutch her blankie without complaint. At least Boomer was there to actually comfort her.

She busied herself with grabbing an old blanket from the closet. It's a little thing; old, sort of musty, but it's small enough that she can fold it up and it wont take up too much space in the bag. A brief visit to the bathroom allows her to raid the cabinet. She grabs everything that's in there – the old med kit, the painkillers, the vitamins...everything. Half the shit she doesn't recognize all too well – antiseptic something something, a bottle of _prozac_ (why? She'll never know,) but she shoved it all into the suitcase.

Buttercup scratched her cheek. Without much thought, she rummaged through her closet and drags out her old baseball bat. She felt the weight in her hand; it used to be her father's – ironic – made of aluminum, it'd do some damage. That's for sure. She lets that rest beside the suitcase, before throwing a jacket in there. Just in case.

Just as she moves to zip up the suitcase, to take it downstairs and raid the kitchen, she paused. Glancing over and Bubbles, she pursed her lips. "Hey..." Her voice was too rough. "Sweetheart, do you need anything?" Still too rough, but both pairs of blue eyes glance up at her.

Bubbles sniffled, rubbing her eyes while Boomer quietly watched her. "I w-want a huuug."

Nodding, Buttercup awkwardly leaned a knee onto the bed. Both kids threw themselves at her; small, fragile, frightened and trembling. She hugged them until they pulled back, then stared down at her baseball cap on the nightstand. Beside it, a family photo. She grabbed the photo, shoving it in her pocket. Wedging the baseball cap onto her head, she smiled weakly at them, "C'mon, let's get the car keys, and then we're outta here."

* * *

Buttercup ran over Mr Bennett's rapidly putrefying, reanimated corpse. There's a bloodstain on Sara's nice (crappy) mazda now. Oh well. In the back, she can see Boomer and Bubbles huddled close to each other. The suitcase was thrown into the back, along with her backpack that she crammed shit from the garage into.

Her dad's entire toolbox. Y'know, wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers, nails, hammers, screws, the whole toolbox. That didn't go into the backpack, that just sits in the boot now, but still. It's worth mentioning. Duct-tape, those squeezy ice-packs, and she actually managed to uproot a damn sleeping bag. It's too small for her, but the kids can probably squeeze into it.

(What she's not mentioning is that when they sneaked out to her step-mother's car, everybody in the neighborhood seemed to be... _affected_.) She shudders, drumming her hands on the wheel. "...You guys okay back there?" Boomer meets her eyes in the rear-view mirror. He says nothing, but nods. Quiet kid. Understandable, considering the circumstances.

It also doesn't help that both times Boomer's been alone with Buttercup, he's witnessed grotesque murder. Because that's what it is, _murder_ , she's _killed_ two people now and something tells her that she can't afford to feel guilty about it. There's only more to come, after all.

What a morbid thought.

She turns back to the road. They've been driving for maybe an hour, now. In truth, Buttercup has little to _no_ plan. Maybe drive up to Santa Rosa, try and find Blossom. Her big sis will know what to do. Maybe. Then again, Blossom's always been a skeptic. Brushed off silly science fiction scenarios, deemed them unlikely. So maybe her big sis doesn't have a plan.

Maybe Buttercup wont get there in time.

Maybe Blossom wont be in Santa Rosa.

Maybe she'll be infected, like her neighbors.

The thought distracts her enough that she has to swerve around a person. There's a weird crunch she tries to ignore when she presumably runs the car over its leg. A heavy discomfort knots in her stomach. That's all it is, though, she can't afford to feel anything else. Nothing more than maybe disgusted. A heartwrenching little sob comes from Bubbles. Her eyes are watching out the back window, where a smear of dark red is left on the asphalt. "Ignore it, kid," Buttercup mumbles. More bitterly, she adds, "They'll be plenty more where that came from." Her point seems to be emphasized as they drive through their tiny little town.

You can hear car alarms, more terrified _screaming_ – god, she's had enough of that now – and glass breaking. People scatter all over the place. Alive or – or...well, _zombified_ , she guesses – all of them causing havoc. Some are trying to get to their own cars. Some succeed. Some are less fortunate.

A particularly graphic scene of a woman getting torn into burns itself into Buttercup's retinas. All she can really think is that there will be a lot of bodies left to bake in the sun.

Fuck, what is she doing? Dragging two kids onto a eight/nine hour drive to Santa Rosa. With barely any idea on what is happening, and she was stupid enough to forget her phone back at home. Then she realizes that 1) she doesn't really know where she's going, and 2) she'll have to take a _huge_ detour to avoid driving straight through San Diego. It'll be hell trying to drive through major cities. a while the _Thanks for visiting Townsville!_ sign comes into view. Bubbles whines uncertainly, "Where are we going?"

Buttercup sighs through her teeth, "Santa Rosa." The kids flinch when something collides with the side of the car. Goddammit. "Lock the doors, guys," She adds, reaching over to push the little peg down in the side of the door. Damn mazda. No auto-lock feature. Buttercup's glad she knows how to drive stick.

"...Why?" One of them asks, she's not sure which.

"Why?" She pauses, "What do you mea -" Right. "My sister's in Santa Rosa right now." That's all she says. She can't just admit that, oh, yeah, she's banking their lives on the hopes that her sister might have a better game-plan than she does.

On the bright side, Buttercup wont have to lie around an after-school detention today.

Or that pop quiz she was doomed to fail. Her history teacher has something against her, she knows it.

The two blonds whisper to each other. Warbled mumbling; she can hear that they're both close to another round of tears, and hugging each other close. Boomer sniffles loudly in the quiet car. Outside is so much louder. Further away from Townsville, there are stray cars out on the highway. It's strange. People are out of their vehicles, news stations on blast. Most of them look...relatively normal. It doesn't explain why everything is still, though, why all the cars are stopped. Rolling down her window the slightest bit, pieces of news reports stream through.

"- In relation to the most recent outbreak -"

"- Saying that it _can_ be transmittable, and -"

" - Quarantined states have been confirmed..."

Fuck. She slows the car down a little, listening out a little more. Bubbles tries to say something, but she quickly shushes the girl. It's a little harsh, but she needs to know.

" - Washington...New York, California -"

Fuck. Fuck. That's why everybody's stopped. There's no point in trying to get away from this disease. They're being quarantined. Dammit. Buttercup slams her fist onto the wheel. She grits her teeth together, closes her eyes. There are children in the car, she reminds herself. They are small, scared, and that _wont_ be helped by her screaming profanities at the dashboard.

Buttercup stops the car all together, a little distanced from all the other clustered vehicles on the road. Families are staring out to somewhere ahead of them. Something that's holding up the line.

Without much thought, she firmly states, "Stay in the car. I'll be back." And, man, she really needs to work on talking to these kids more. Whenever she and Blossom babysat Bubbles, it was always her step-sister doing all the sweet talking and niceties. Buttercup was making dinner (or ordering it from the nearest pizza place, same difference,) or playing errand girl because she didn't know how to really interact with Bubbles. About the closest she got to ever truly playing with a kid was with Mitch at the park. Soccer, that kind of thing. Dammit.

Boomer gasps a little when she slams the door. Through the crack in the window, he stammers, "W-Wait! Where are – where are you going?" She just motions zipping her lips shut and pointing at him sternly. He reclines back into the seats.

Bubbles clutches his wrist and whispers, "She knows what she's doing."

What's the opposite of 'ye of little faith'? Under her breath, she hisses, "You trust me too much." The children don't hear her. When she finally looks around, there's...not much to make out.

There's a lot of yelling, though, over the news station blasting from car speakers. A lot of, "What's happening?!" and, "God, _move_ already!" Buttercup briskly weaves between stalled cars. A couple adults glance at her, and a woman stops her and asks, "Where are your parents?"

All she has to say is, "Gone." The woman visibly pales and retracts her hand. The tall girl continues through the mass of parked cars. It doesn't take long until she's resorting to climbing up onto a car's roof to see above the crowd.

There, a couple cars ahead, is a crashed vehicle. The driver thrown forward through the windscreen, and another person strewn out in the middle of the road. Driver appears dead. She's already had enough death for a lifetime, _fucking hell._ Though, the less fortunate person spasms on the road.

Unnatural, guttural noises are tearing from the man's mouth. Head shaking side to side, a filmy, frothy substance flying everywhere. It sounds painful. In front of her eyes, it's like those timelapse videos in biology where they make you watch the deterioration of dead things.

The man's spine arches with a pitiful cry. His eyes roll back into his head, coming back milky-gray. He slams his head back on the concrete. A crack echoes through the area. It's like all noise dims. Her senses are all exposed, heightened, just for her to traumatize herself with this scene.

It looks just like a spasm to be honest. Somebody having an epileptic episode, some sort of convulsion. But when his leg gets caught and twists a total 180 and he's still screeching, it's _more_ than an episode. Buttercup watches, unable to look away. The dislocated knee snaps itself further with his writhing. Bending like a regular knee would, but it's all _backwards_ , and that's _not_ how knees work. His hands, shaking, move to claw at his face. Deep red lines gouge into his eye sockets. Pure compulsion.

Her mouth goes dry.

The man starts to try and tear the flesh from his hand. The people around her start shuffling away now, startled into action. People start getting back into their cars. One is not so lucky, because the man grasps for their ankle and yanks the soon to be victim to the ground. Surprising force. Strength that doesn't make sense – he's decaying at rapid speeds, muscles wasting and bones turning feeble. It doesn't make sense.

Before she can try to figure it out, there's another hair-raising scream and the victim is clawed at. Nobody moves to help her. The entire process starts happening again. The victim turns limp, before starting to writhe on the concrete. Fuck.

Buttercup's feet start dragging her away. She makes eye contact with the man. His skin starts to slip a little, flaking and dragging down. An incoherent garble comes from him, before he starts walking towards her.

She's so glad she used to be on the track team. One easy pivot and she's _racing_ back towards her step-mother's crappy mazda. Cars are all over the place, trying to get out of the road all at once. She nearly gets hit once, but she starts to climb up onto the hoods of cars. It's like a game of leapfrog.

Behind her, the sound of glass breaking makes her heart hammer harder. She left her bat in the car. She left the kids in the car. She left everything in the car, even the keys, and she needs to get her ass in gear, goddammit. More yelling. Shouts, cries. Pandemonium.

She always thought it'd be World War III that would come to bite them in the ass.

Maybe not. Maybe the end of the world would come from this – distorted cannibalism and skewed morals. That's...honestly a lot better than she used to think about. At least humanity wont die out from the nuclear remnants of WWIII. No, they'll gnaw each other into nothing first. Wonderful.

Short of breath, she stumbles into the car and slams the door shut. She'd never really cared about the roads around here, but god is she thankful for the lack of road barriers. Townsville isn't exactly the richest place in San Diego – far from it – so it's an understatement to say that road barriers weren't exactly the first thing to come to mind. Still, she's grateful. It means she can swerve off of the road, around the line of cars and the mass of walking corpses.

Bubbles and Boomer jostle around in the back. "Seat belts. Now." She huffs to herself, grip tight on the steering wheel. No time to think about it. She can try and process everything later, right now, she just needs to drive. Nine hour drive to Santa Rosa. One hand on the wheel, eyes ahead, she reaches to rummage through the glove compartment. Maybe Sara was the old-fashion parents that kept those map books in the car?

No such luck.

The GPS she has in there is out of battery, too. Fuck. Looks like they'll be winging it. The car engine revs loudly as they speed alongside the carnage. Bubbles whimpers a little, "Buttercup, what's that ou-outside?" She doesn't answer. Instead, Buttercup roughly changes the subject, "Do either of you have phones?" They're nine, ten years old, they'll have phones right?

Buttercup didn't get her first phone 'til she was twelve, and even then, it was a flip-phone, but things change through the generations. To her dismay, the blonds shake their heads. She sighs. "Either of you know where the nearest gas station is?" It'll be a while 'til they actually near San Diego, but there are usually pit stops and such along the way. Right? Buttercup's never been further than Carlsbad.

Boomer hums uncertainly, "...When the yellow sign comes up?" _Yellow_ sign? Fine. The kid continues, "I – I don't know when it'll come."

She nods, forcing herself to speak a little gentler, "Thanks, kid." It feels lacking.

Bubbles leans forward when the roads clear and Buttercup slows down again. They'll need that damn gas station soon. The small girl puts a soft hand on top of her own, on the stick shift. She asks, "What's happening out there?" Buttercup can't look at her. Not those shiny blue eyes, not any of it. She keeps her eyes on the road.

"Hell if I know, Bubbs."

* * *

The sun's low and there's still no sign of, well, anything. It's honestly starting to unnerve her. At points, it gets a little easier to convince herself that this is all a dream. A weird, fucked up fever dream that she'll wake up from. And when she wakes up, she'll realize that there's a history pop quiz she didn't study for and an after-school detention that she'll have to squirm out of. Track practice after school, since it's Monday, all that.

It doesn't happen. Buttercup doesn't 'wake up' hours later. It's dark by this point; the headlights of Sara's car on low and the kids haven't spoken for a while.

Just when the little clock on the dashboard hits 11:30 PM, she thinks that...maybe they've reached a point where _nothing_ is. Too far out on the highway. Then Buttercup makes the mistake of glancing in the rear-view mirror. To check on the two blonds, y'know, see if they're sleeping. She learns two things:

One, Boomer and Bubbles have fallen asleep.

Two, a vehicle was following them.

How the fuck had she missed that? Their headlights aren't on or anything like that, but the lights of Buttercup's own car reflected dimly on the vehicle. She can't make out faces. What does she do? The _fuck_?

Like hell is she stopping. That only leaves...driving. Just keep driving, she supposes. She's too tired for this shit. What she'd give to fall asleep and wake up. Any history pop quiz is better than this. She glances down at Bubbles and Boomer. They're slumped against each other, seatbelts digging into the arms a little. They look so peaceful. Albeit a little weary, even in sleep, but she's not much better.

As she turns back to the road, something stumbles into the road. Her headlights only _just_ pick up on it in time. With a tight grip on the wheel, she swerves around what appears to be a person. But as she stares at it in her side-mirror...it _used_ to be a person. And that's what pulls her back into reality.

There's the screech of wheels behind her; an engine roaring, somebody honking at the wheel. Her heart picks up, starting to pump heavily. Was the car honking at her? Or just in general? A panicked reaction to a zombie stumbling into their way on the middle of the highway.

The low-gas light starts blinking on the dashboard. Shit. Taking a deep breath, she turns the headlights off. A simple flick of the dial just behind the wheel, but...not they're in total darkness. She knows this road well enough – it's the one her father would use when they drove up to Sara's parents' place. That doesn't stop her from slowing significantly and maybe driving more into the left lane.

In the dark, she watches the car trailing them drive past, unaware. Thank god. She allows Sara's mazda to drift back into the right lane. Boomer's groggy, "B – Buttercup?" Damn near makes her swerve off into the brush.

She raises an eyebrow (one that he can't see) and replies, "Sup, blondie."

The girl listens to Boomer fidget in the backseat, debating with himself. "..Can we have some music?"

She purses her lips, shaking her head, "Not right now. Haven't got anything to play." His hum is disappointed, but he accepts the answer. She swallows noisily, "Tell you what – when we get to that gas station -" Soon, hopefully - "We can look 'round for some CDs."

There's a soft sniffle; muted, like he tried to cover it up. "I'd like that." Buttercup lets out a sigh, nodding to herself.

The silhouette of her fingers are dark against the soft glow of the dashboard. The low-gas light is red in a menagerie of off-blue lighting. "Do you like music, kid?" She asks. Maybe it's just for the sake of asking, for filling the silence. But a little part of her has a genuine interest. Blossom always said it was rude to just make assumptions – this was usually about the kind of seasonings she put into the spaghetti, but it still applies. Maybe Boomer doesn't like rock music, maybe he likes pop or jazz of all things.

Boomer makes an affirmative sound, "My mom – my mom liked Joy Division."

Buttercup ignores the past tense he uses, and hums lowly, "Joy Division's a good choice." There's a little shuffling, before Boomer's voice is a lot closer to her than before. He must have leaned forward in the seat.

"What...music to do you like, Buttercup?" She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, staring out into the darkness beyond the hood of the car. "

Rock," She says, "And maybe some punk, too." He nods sagely, as if what she just told him actually means anything.

"Rock's good," He acquiesces. Then, a little more hesitant, "Is – is Blink-182 rock?" She rolls her shoulder loosely, "More...pop punk."

Boomer nods again, chewing his lip. His dark eyes catch the reflection of the dim light. He looks gaunt in the lighting, only the most prominent of his features highlighted. He looks starved and terrified. Relatable.

"If I -" She chuckles, it's bitter, and it makes Boomer flinch - "If I had my _phone_ , maybe we could play some music, kiddo." with her spare hand, Buttercup drags her hand down her face. Then adjusts her baseball cap, before taking it off all together and raking her nails along her scalp. It does little to make her eyelids less heavy.

"But since I _dont_ -" Irritation makes her clench the wheel tighter than she should have - "We're without music, and we're _fuckin' lost_." And they're so fucking low on gas and she's _hungry_ goddammit and there are two children in her backseat that she doesn't know how to look after. She can't even get her head straight about algebra, what makes her able to cater to infants?

There's a small, roughed up hand on her shoulder. It squeezes her shoulder through its trembling. She stares out into the darkness, resolute. Boomer clears his throat a little, "We'll...we'll be okay." A small chuckle – more like a giggle – and the kid has the gall to say, "We're with you, after all."

It's not reassuring at all. But, for the sake of this poor kid who's watched her kill _twice_ , she forces a smile. "Right," She murmurs. "Right. We'll be okay."

* * *

That yellow sign that Boomer was talking about doesn't show up until the fuel meter on the dashboard is nothing more than a thin red line. Two hours later, because she's been making the mazda go at a crawl in order to preserve gas.

She takes the turn, vaguely surprised by the sight of street lamps ahead. It takes her a second for her eyes to adjust. When they do, it's to a pickup truck already at the station, rumbling low in the night as the driver adds to his tank. Buttercup purses her lips, pulling her car up to one of the pumps. It creeps slowly across the asphalt. God, she's on edge. In the rear-view mirror, she sees Boomer slumped against Bubbles once again. Okay, she tells herself, okay, they could do this. A simple fill up and go; back on the road.

The second her car pulls to a complete stop, she regrets it. The man across the gas station watches her as she gets out and leaves the door open. While she grabs the keys, she wedges each one between her fingers, before keeping her hand in a loose fist.

Grabbing the feeder and shoving it into the tank hatch is the easy part. Watching the numbers steadily go up, the whirring sound as the diesel chugs into her tank is all well and good. Nothing goes wrong there. She leaves the feeder back on the rest, shuts the hatch and moves to get back in her car. A gruff voice calls from across the station, "You not gonna pay for that?"

Buttercup throws a look at him over her shoulder, "Are you?" Clearly not. He's already made to get into his truck; old, chipping yellow paint looking thing. Buttercup feels the back of her neck prickle when the man starts to stroll towards her. She kicks the car door shut, pressing the little button her keys that lock it. Boomer and Bubbles were soundly asleep, but now Bubbles is twitching and shifting. Fuck. Poor kids. All Buttercup wants to do is find Blossom. She'll know what to do.

The man is beer-bellied, rough around the edges and as he nears, Buttercup is reminded of the locker rooms after running track. Sweat. Damp. That uncomfortable feeling of knowing that you're being judged as you change into your regular clothes. She doesn't like the way he's looking at her. "Whatcha want?" She asks, trying to appear casual. She keeps the hand with her keys just slightly behind her.

The man doesn't seem to notice, lumbering towards her, "What's a lil' -" A pause. He sizes her up as he gets closer. Barely an arm's length apart now, and Buttercup is only a couple inches shorter than the man. Said man corrects his question, "What's a sweet thing like you doing out here?"

She steps away from him, "Gettin' gas." For every step she takes back, he takes a step forward. Her feet steps off of asphalt and onto sandy soil. She stands just outside the light of the gas station now, over that bright line and into the dark. Her back is to whatever could be out there. This is a bad sign.

Suddenly, his rancid breath is in her face. She sees the silhouette of a meaty hand moving towards her; she grips his wrist, tugging it forwards and forcing the man to go stumbling. She kicks him once in the side before racing back to Sara's shitty mazda.

She fumbles with the keys, jamming them harshly into the door's lock, with no such luck. Buttercup's always found Sara's amount of keys to be rather obnoxious. From over her shoulder, Buttercup can hear stumbling, the man grumbling loudly to himself. The thump of his boots gets closer.

The keys slip from her hands, because of _course_ they do.

Turning to put her back against the car, the sight surprises her. Sure, there is a burly man stalking towards her in bleak white garage light and that desolate looking backdrop of the sight desert isn't the most pleasing, but...well, when the world's ending that's not the worst scenario she can think of.

It's the coyotes behind him that make her stop. They shift in the shadows, eyes gleaming dully in the lights. Small yips back and forth to each other – two, maybe three – all of them small and scrawny from what she can see. One of them steps out into the light.

The man doesn't notice, still approaching her. He says something vile – sex, how young she is, blah blah blah – and before he can take another step, she shoves him backwards. Punches him – left hook, it's always a left hook, how funny is that – and he stumbles and trips over his feet. Asshole. Buttercup would have pursued – her own anger would have been enough to at least knock the guy out. But low growls and claws clicking on concrete make her stay by the car.

No, coyotes aren't the most threatening thing out here. But they are when they foam bloody froth at the mouth, eyes milky and their mange exposing the crude gouge marks around their necks and stomachs. She's transfixed as the coyotes prowl closer. The man – fuck, he doesn't even see what's coming – and tries to sit up. A sudden movement; how fucking stupid. One of the mutts lunge. The other one snarls, before pouncing too. Buttercup blinks for a second. Still as a statue. Unmoving, unblinking, unthinking. It's gruesome, really. From their wounds, this thick substance oozes. It doesn't look like blood, but the gross dregs you find in the bottom of a wine glass, thick and oily as it runs through the rough patches of mottled fur and onto the concrete.

It's gross. It doesn't make sense.

She can't look away.

Coyotes don't attack people. Not often, anyway. But there's something wrong with these ones; they smell like rotten mulch and when they roll around the in the sand, more of their fur falls away. The man lets out a shout – she spies a pair of sharp jaws sinking into flesh, tearing, scrabbling to pull away.

Two against one.

Three against one.

Another person limps from the shadows, into the gas station light. Withering hair, skin sloughing, milky eyes and a foaming mouth. Arm torn to the bone, dislocated jaw. Buttercup takes a step back, pressed up against her car. The smell of blood is ripe in the air. And the man is screaming.

God, she wants the screaming to stop.

And suddenly the stupid stalker creeper _thing_ sinks to its knees just before all the carnage. The coyotes keep tearing into the man, stomach gaping and his blood suddenly isn't so bright on the concrete floor.

His struggling comes to a stop.

His screaming comes to a stop.

Then the coyotes are screaming – those high pitched yowls that leave her head pounding like a truck slamming into her each time. Their muzzles are stained red. More foamy saliva drips to the floor. She watches, unnerved, as the zombo-freak reaches out with trembling appendages. There is a sick satisfaction in watching slick teeth sink into the man's cranium. God, she thinks. The guy never saw it coming. _Never_ saw it coming.

Blindly, she picks her keys up from the ground. Buttercup opens her car, and climbs inside. It's hard to tear her eyes from the sight. Shredded entrails and smeared not-quite-blood.

She wonders if this is what god had in mind in those seven days.

Hell, she wonders if this is what _she_ had in mind two days ago.

Then she chuckles to herself. Why is she thinking about god? He's gone, now. She turns the key in the ignition, and they are far, far, far away from the gas station once more.

* * *

How Bubbles and Boomer slept through that, she will never know. But they did. So when they wake up, Bubbles seems to be attempting a smile and Boomer's got his heart set on finding a Blink-182 CD.

She's taken a huge detour to avoid a majority of the towns they have to get through. That puts them somewhere along in Alpine, maybe, and if she squints, she can see the town out in the distance. But that's not where they're going, so she doesn't stop by. They're good on gas for now. Food, however, is a different matter.

Maybe they can stop by another gas station. Get some snacks. It's not like anybody's really going to miss it. Then again...Buttercup doesn't really want to near a gas station right now.

There's an ache in her back from sitting in the car for so long, and her head is fuzzy with the screaming. Even all the way out here, the screaming follows. Cars burning on the side of the highway, dogs howling themselves hoarse from their trapped places, terror palpable in the air, death in the form of shrieks strangled stiff and Buttercup wants to _bludgeon every single one of them._

If her white-knuckle grip on the wheel is any indicator, neither kid points it out. Somewhere along the line, Boomer tries to lighten the mood. He taps a beat on the windowsill (left open due to the heat.) His humming isn't he worst thing Buttercup's ever listened to. Soft, actually; melodic rather than tuneless. It doesn't easily join the static in the back of her head. Bubbles finds it in herself to sing sweetly; harmony. Still, Buttercup ignores their hopeful stares. Hoping for her to sing along. It's not something she can will herself to do right now.

Not when a fucking eighteen-wheeler truck is blocking the road.

She pulls the rim of her cap over her eyes. Deep breaths. One...two...three...four – fuck it.

Buttercup yanks her cap off and slams it against the dashboard angrily. Of course there's a blockage. This isn't Townsville anymore, there are roadblockers and they're all concrete and firm. She can't just swerve around the tipped truck and off-road. There are barriers. She's stuck. A glance to the lane heading back home shows that, well, there's no hope in that either. The traffic is all backed up.

Who knows how many people died there.

Who knows how many got bitten.

 _Who fucking knows._

Bubbles makes an uncertain noise from the backseat, "Why have we stopped?"

She gestures vaguely to the tipped truck. "I can't get 'round it." Unless they can hotwire another car, but Buttercup doesn't know how to do that. And they can't just leave the car, either. There are so many dead people out there. Dragging, limping, stumbling around.

They're fucked. Buttercup has...there's no way...they're not gonna survive if she tells them to get out the car and walk around. They can't get to Citiesville on foot. That would take...weeks. Well, maybe not that long, but _days_. Days they _don't_ have – days she doesn't have, can't afford. Blossom will definitely be gone by then.

Boomer clambers into the front seat, trying to get a better look at the truck. "...Can we not fit around the side?"

Buttercup shakes her head, "A motorcycle, maybe." But there's no way she's juggling all three of them, plus their few supplies, on a motorcycle. She sighs. In the back, there's her backpack and a suitcase. Light weight. She could carry that by herself, no problem. It just depends on how fast the kids can run. She can...try and jack a car or something, or...or...fuck.

Buttercup smirks humorlessly. "How do you guys feel about taking a little walk?"

Silence. She glances over her shoulder, only to find a creep staring directly into Bubbles' back window. Thank fucking god the window's rolled up. It's automatic when the first thing she reaches for is her bat.

In one swift movement, she's out of the car and bringing down aluminum onto a brittle skull. _Crunch_. Like mulch. No, Buttercup doesn't look. No, Buttercup doesn't listen. No, Buttercup doesn't stop.

(No, Buttercup doesn't watch the way yellowing skull and graying brain mush caves under her swing, each hit solid and fucking disgusting. Bits fly, and she's pretty sure she got some of that not-quite-blood in her mouth. The sounds are wet; sloshing, almost, as she turns this zombie's head into paste. To think she used to like guacamole. Not anymore.)

Only when the thing stops twitching does she let her bat rest at her side. From inside the car, wide blue eyes stare at her. Boomer seems...understanding, to say the least. Awed and horrified, but he understands the sacrifice. Bubbles...looks ready to cry. Terrified, her lower lip wobbling as she blinks down at the corpse at Buttercup's feat. Indiscreetly, Buttercup kicks it under the car. "C'mon," Buttercup crows, "Get out, we're gonna wire another car." It's their only option.

She throws a glare at the tipped truck.

Rounding Sara's shitty mazda, she pops open the boot and shoulders her backpack. She keeps the suitcase's handle extended, so she can pull it along after her.

Buttercup was hungry before this.

Now? Still pretty damn hungry.

"Maybe we can get some food along the way," She murmurs out loud. Around them, everything seems quiet. But...if zombies sneak up as quietly as that one just did, the quiet isn't exactly a good thing.

It's better than the screaming.

* * *

So maybe Buttercup lied when she said she had no idea how to hotwire a car. It's just a matter of remembering which wire needs to go with which. That's the...difficult part. She showed Boomer, though. He seemed genuinely interested. Bubbles was more concerned about getting sneaked up on again. Buttercup thinks, that while the little girl sat on the roof of the car, that Bubbles maybe wanted a minute to cry by herself. So she let the blonde do that. What else is there she could do?

But whatever. They've got a cool new car that has maybe half a tank of gas. Buttercup doesn't know when they can come across food. There are two cans in her backpack. That's all they had in the cupboards, for some reason. Apparently her family doesn't invest much into canned goods.

Fucking Sara and her fresh grocers.

And, would you look at that, Bubbles is gently tugging on her sleeve, "Buttercup, I'm hungry..."

She shrugs, "Check in my backpack. Might be some pineapple slices or something." Buttercup has no idea what the canned food is. She saw _sweet_ on one of the labels and _chopped_ on another. She hopes they're edible. Boomer makes a happy sound, and they both declare _yams!_ merrily.

She doesn't think she's ever heard someone so pleased to see _yams_ of all things.

Bubbles make a disconcerted sound, "...Are they good?" Boomer nods merrily, wrestling around in Buttercup's backpack for the one plastic fork she found and decided was a good idea to take along.

"Really good!" Boomer continues, "They're sweet an' juicy."

Buttercup drums her fingers on the wheel. She doesn't like this new car as much. It's smaller, and she doesn't really know what most of the buttons do. It's automatic instead of stick-shift, and a crappy newer model that is made out of alloy instead of good ol' _metal_. Easier to damage. "That enough to tide you guys over?" She asks. The kids let out an affirmative. There's the metallic ring of the can being peeled open.

Buttercup just hopes they find some sort of jackpot soon.


	2. chapter two

**RATED M** just in case (there's swearing and most definitely violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)  
 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.):** 10,653

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES (tho the blues are kids so it'd be pretty pg) if i care enough to pay attention to them. i have decided to do a POV change by alternating chapters,but still haven't decided if i'd like to change the pov throughout the chapter - though, i have a feeling, i will end up doing so later on.

/no beta (duh.) lmao guess who just crawled out of the metaphorical grave? this guy. there's this big weird thing called life that's been keeping me pretty occupied, but i managed to bang this thing out in an hour or two so. anyway i did warn about the hiatus-level updates on this thing, so im not as ashamed to say: hey, here's the second chapter, have at it. enjoy ig.

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** there will never be a universe where his shoelaces don't suffer /or/ how many bodies will keep him awake tonight?

* * *

"Red, I can't say that I've ever heard of any _Citiesville_ ," Butch had grunted, hauling a stack of tires across the garage (sure, one by itself ain't too bad, neither is two, but when you've got four of them all in one go for what appears to be a shoddy monster truck, well...let's just say it's a little heavier than his usual load and leave it at that.) Brick picked disinterestedly through Butch's toolbox, then, hummed and shrugged.

Brick never had liked hanging 'round the garage.

Too primitive, Butch had grumbled to himself, too menial but his younger cousin still don't really understand that if he wants a functioning car for when the end of the world rears it's ugly mug, then a background in the garage is a damn near must.

Still sorta pisses him off that Brick thinks he can just brush off his garage like that, but...well, college students; prestigious, plucky, under the pretense that they're worth something. (As you can see, Butch never made it to college. No, he was working to make sure Brick _could_ make it. Look at how that turned out, huh.) "It has an acclaimed college there. Citiesville is relatively nice, and the crime-rate trumps the one 'round here." Butch rolled his eyes; Brick continued to natter on. How it'd been guaranteed to be worth it – debt regardless. "I'll be out with a degree faster than you can blink," The redhead promised.

There was an unspoken 'I'll be able to pay you back' that carried heavy in the garage. Butch just rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on a rag, "If you say so, Red."

"Don't call me that."

Butch waves him off, "Sure thing, Red." Then, after a moment of quiet, he turned to look at the younger boy, "...Where even is Citiesville?" To which Brick shrugged, as if it was simple, as if it was easy, as if it was _affordable_ , "California." The most expensive state in the whole damn country.

"California," Butch echoed.

Brick nodded, "California."

* * *

So that's how Butch managed to scrounge up his savings and scored themselves a little place on the outskirts of Citiesville, Santa Rosa, CA.

Butch had given up his garage for this. Sure, it hadn't earned him much in the first place, but. It'd been _something_ that he hadn't needed his ol' man to help him out with. But Brick wanted Citiesville college, and what even is Butch without Brick (?), so goodbye garage.

He regrets it, though. If – if they hadn't _moved across the damn country_ – maybe they'd've been okay. Maybe it would've been better. The first weeks? They were...rough. Butch couldn't fit in because he was too harsh, too loud to get along with people. The jobs he managed to hold down were maybe a week at most each. There were no garages around here. Not in Citiesville. The apartments racked up to the thousands _per month_. Water's a scarcity around here. The shower in their apartment automatically shut off after four minutes.

But Brick was happy. His college application, though a little late, had taken. Brick was guaranteed a place for the next semester. Call him a bad older cousin for not remembering what Brick chose as his majors, but Butch has just never had the same interest in physics. The closest he got to it was _physical_ – as in gym routine, workin' on an engine, dragging 'round big metal parts for personal projects.

Citiesville lacks those offers. Butch found himself going insane in a fucking office job – those that would actually hire him. No, he didn't want to write market plans. No, he didn't want to be a telemarketer. No, no, no, _don't put him in the helpline industry_. It got hard. Harder than it'd been in New York. Butch started sleeping on the fucking couch just so Brick had enough study space. And fuck, did he miss his cars. He loved the Lotus that'd prowl down the block, the glorious engine, the shining coat of lavender. The Lotus' owner was soft on the eyes, too, loved to tip extra. That kinda dosh? That's what kept Butch's place running. All those high-end shmucks, paying him to look after their cars, and man, were those some fine ass fucking cars. A Harley D once, too.

But then that sickness came along.

It put out a lot of business around.

There was this weird breakout of something, from a neighboring city. Or rather, a _town_. Still, it hadn't really mattered. Butch just wanted a stable job. And with people dropping like flies, it'd sure made his job a helluva lot easier. He just...wished he understood what was happening a little sooner.

It'd gone smoothly. Brick was getting himself ready for his fresh start. Butch had gone out of his way to help buy all his new stationary, helped him figure out a good organization system. It was good. Everything was...it was good. Butch had hunkered down as a taxi driver for the time being. It...paid decent money. More than he expected, anyway. That was enough.

Then there was that damn freakshow that spread like wildfire.

Some YouTube video. A hoax, at first, but quickly proved real when the epidemic spread. That'd been scary. That'd scared the shit outta him. It felt like an exposition dump on a video game, in total honesty. A virus breaking out, people losing their minds over some bullshit disease. Cheesy, almost. Butch had never entertained the idea of humanity bein' stupid enough to actually pull this crap.

Brick had been skeptical. Of course he had, it's Brick, and what's Brick good for other than offering skepticism? So he'd shrugged a loose shoulder, turned back to his netbook. Fingers flying over the keys. _Taptaptaptaptap_. But Butch? Butch stared at his phone. Watched the person twist, watched their eyes roll back, watched how their skin sallowed in the sun. Heard the screaming. It was muffled from the shitty speaker, but it still made his skin crawl. But Brick had said 'turn that shit off already' so Butch had stuffed his phone in his pocket and turned back to the bills on the table. "One day, I'm going to buy us a mansion," Brick declared.

Butch had fallen asleep laughing.

He woke up to the news rushing through a blockage on the highway, goin' on _miles and miles_ , backed up by vacant cars and camera footage from a speed-cam of drivers tearing each other apart. "Not so much of a hoax now, huh Red?" Butch'd grunted over his coffee.

It'd been in jest. Butch has never taken to serious topics well; badly-timed jokes, the odd remark instead of any real contribution to discussion. So he's not surprised when Brick is standing behind the couch, pallid and tense. "Apparently not," The redhead had clipped. Butch watched a grainy speed-cam snatch of a mazda pulling a hard turn from the road. It zipped off into the brush, around all the traffic backed up. Smart, he thought. Butch didn't see it as anything significant. He doesn't blame 'em; why stick 'round all that gore?

Something of a Saturday, then; no plans, probably a stay home and order takeout for dinner sorta day. Brick was hammering away on his netbook. By twelve, Butch had prodded him: "You're awfully intent on breakin' that board, y'know." Then Butch had taken a look at what Brick had been so intent on scrolling through.

National news reports. CNN and Fox where obviously all over it. The more local news, too. Everything. ' _A Zombie-Virus Outbreak Or A Hoax?_ ' that was late, from about two days ago. Other headlines. _Clinical Testings Gone Wrong,_ and _Comic-born Epidemic Leading To Quarantine._ A stagnancy filled the space. Brick's hands came to rest on his keyboard. "We're fucked," He hushed. There was a mixture; awe and fear, mystified. Butch didn't see the awing quality. His gut coiled venomously.

Butch isn't bright by any means. He doesn't have the whip-smart that Brick got from his side of the family. Butch is just a guy who knows cars. That doesn't mean he walks around merrily, blame-free, for not getting them out sooner. Instead of blindly trusting Brick, he should've looked into it himself. Like an adult does.

"We should be okay," His cousin sighed, "For now. It's relatively contained down in San Diego, and we're all the way up here. It'll be kept contained." (But Butch had heard the radio later that day, on his drive to an impromptu interview; the entire state of California had been quarantined. New York, too. West Virginia. New Jersey. Maine. Washington.) Unfortunately, like Butch said, he blindly trusted Brick in this.

They were stuck here, after all.

By then, Butch had been getting more and more job offers. _Better_ job offers. Pharmacist, even if he didn't have the qualifications. That was the best-paying one. There wasn't much thought put into it. Not suspicious. Not to him, anyway, since he sort of lied about his experience to keep the job. Not much, though. They seemed almost desperate. Everywhere did. Businesses struggling to keep themselves standing. People were dropping like flies. In hindsight, he should've known better. Citiesville is a city, after all. Cities are good at hiding things. Nobody is close in cities. Things are easy to keep secret.

So some weekday – probably a Tuesday because Tuesdays have always been out to get him – screaming starts up. This raw sound. Butch and his customer had paused; then, like idiots, they'd gone to check it out. Outside, on the street. Cars were stopped, honking, drivers yelling. Until that scream split the air again. The entire block fell silent.

The only reason Butch actually saw over the amassed people was because he was taller than a majority of them. It's something he used to pride himself on. (Now, though? It makes it harder to hide.)

Twisting in the middle of the road was a woman. He doesn't know how she got there. Maybe she flailed out of her car? Her jaw worked around nothing, choked gasps grating from her throat. Strain in each muscle. Convulsing, contorting – some sort of fit? Nobody moved to help. Butch doesn't blame them.

Especially when her eyes rolled back. Something from _The Exorcist_ , maybe. Hands scrabbling by her head. Nails chipping, fingers bleeding into the asphalt. All attention was captive. Butch still isn't sure if anybody even breathed. Crack. The woman's head slamming against the ground. _Crack. Crack_. Another scream. A sickened shiver up his spine, somebody whispering _oh my god_ from beside him.

Butch didn't wait. He turned, stalking back inside the pharmacy. Behind the counter, to the back room. Grabbed his keys, his jacket, filled his satchel (an old laptop bag that Brick let him borrow, really,) and stuffed it with whatever was on the shelves. Antibiotics, painkillers, salves – whatever he could get his hands on. By then, the chaos had kicked in. He could see it through the windows; panic forcing the people to scatter, abandoning cars. Blood splashed on windshields. Splintering bones as cars ran the bodies over.

Blood smeared on the window. A face mashed against the glass; skin sloughing, eyes bulging a milky-white. Mouth gnashing aimlessly. The customer Butch had just been talking to. His red hair wild from being pulled at. Gouges in his neck, mouth frothing. Butch stilled. Bag on his shoulder. Keys in his pocket. Phone vibrating wildly in his pocket – the only person who has his number is Brick - _Brick!_

Butch needed to get to his car. Pronto. Asap. Salad. Whatever it was. His heart was hammering in his chest, confused, veins singing with the need to _run_. Butch has never been good at self preservation. He made for the front door of the pharmacy. His car was parked out there, after all. Never was good at thinking things through.

And that's why he yanked the pen from his breast-pocket and stabbed the nearest corpse in the eye. It barely did anything. A brief hesitation – maybe the pen hadn't dug deep enough? – before it was stumbling towards him once more. Dragging it's blackish-bleeding hand on the window. Butch's feet carried him down the street. Dodging the shrieks and the wild flailing of panicked people. Slamming into some, but that didn't stop him. Couldn't. He had a car to get to.

The streets had been still. Cars still on the sides of the roads – the ones that'd been backed up where gone. Turned tail and fled. Butch thinks it's still weird, to this day. Cities don't suddenly lose congestion. But this had, and he needed to be grateful for it and _drive_.

His little corolla hit three people.

Does Butch regret it? Not really.

The trip home was quick. Either because he was pressing on 60 in a 40 zone or because he wasn't thinking through it. What would his old man do? Awful man, don't get him wrong, but Butch had picked up a thing or two: cold and careless. That'd work. That had to work. Cold and careless. Callous. It shouldn't matter, because Butch should've been ready for this – acted like an _adult_ , moved when he still had the chance. Brick's college be damned. Why bother about a bachelor's when there's this freakish sickness spreading like wildfire? But that's Brick, he lamented, that's _Brick_ and Butch should've been more concerned.

The apartment building was a mess. Butch pulled up, dragged his ass out the car, and trudged into the building. The lobby was a mess. "I'm leaving," Debby the lobbyist declared viciously, eyes crazed. Behind that had been the fear. "I'm leaving, y'all can do whatever. Keys for the roof and the boiler-room are in my desk." And then she'd scampered out the door, handbag clutched in her grip. Butch didn't try to stop her.

He simply blocked the door behind her when a dead thing lunged for her. Grit his teeth against her gargled cries. Dragged up one of the lobby couches, and kept the door blocked. Then he turned and jogged his way up the stairs. Two flights later, and Brick was fervently looking up and down the hall. " _Butch_ ," He snapped, "Get your ass in here."

It wasn't _fear_ Butch saw in his younger cousin. It was wide-eyed and stern, whatever it was. But it wasn't fear. Butch new fear in Brick, and it wasn't whatever this was. He simply nudged Brick inside the apartment and shut the door.

Then, Butch let out a breath. A long, quivering sigh, and slid to sit in front of the door. "Why didn't you answer you phone?" Brick spat out. His hair was a mess. Long parts of it frizzy like he'd been pulling at it. Cap nowhere to be seen. "What took you so long?" The questions come sputtering, rough, one after the other: Why didn't Butch get home sooner? Why didn't he tell Brick what was happening? Why isn't Butch saying anything? Underneath, all Butch heard was: 'what did you see?'

So he answers that question. The unspoken question. "That video, the one we saw this weekend?" A nod. Butch runs a hand down his face; a clammy exhaustion slithers through him. "Well," Butch starts, "Let's just say I saw it in person. Outside the pharmacy. Yeah?"

The silence had choked both of them. Butch didn't know how to remedy the situation. He isn't bright like that. What he did know is, "We need to leave. We should leave, Red."

Brick muttered, "Don't call me that." He turned, hands laced behind his head as he started to pace. Butch didn't know what was going on in Brick's head, and won't claim that he ever will, but what he saw was that the cogs were stuck. Not spinning. Snagged on something. Unable to continue turning. "What?" Butch asked, then, standing. They needed to leave. Needed to get out. Except – well, they couldn't, could they? California was quarantined now. But did Brick know that? Most likely. Maybe that's what Brick was stuck on.

"Everybody will be trying to leave -" Brick tugged his hair into a ponytail, eyebrows furrowed. "They'll be trying to drive north – there's no news of this... _sickness_ , up north. Just south." Butch nodded along. "So," Brick continued, "That's gonna be wild trying to get out."

"So?" Butch tried. "It's better than sittin' 'ere," Butch's incredulity started creeping through at that point. Voice raised a pitch. "We ain't staying here, Brick." They couldn't. That – that fucking plague, illness, _mistake_ was out there. Sprawling. Spreading. Gettin' everything it bit into. They would be sitting ducks.

Except, Brick merely shook his head. "We are," He affirmed, "We're staying. And we'll make it." Butch had to wonder why he never set his foot down and said _no_. But the what ifs aren't important anymore. And...it's not like Butch really had any idea. So they stayed.

* * *

It's the day after Brick's declaration of _let's sit like fuckin' ducks_ , and they need food. Canned things had been the agreed necessity. Like in the movies. Canned, dried, instant-foods. That's the best idea. And – y'know, Butch sort of wants something with _reach_ to wack these fresh-dead zombies with. A crowbar sounds nice. Light, but effective.

Getting out of the building ain't the hard part. Neither is getting to Butch's corolla. Sifting through the parking lot – thankfully empty – is trepidation-packed nonetheless. Brick moves slowly. Stiff, looking 'round more than an owl. Butch trudges across the parking lot. He doesn't care when the _blip blip_ of his car unlocking carries through the ambiance. Brick does, though. He hisses through grit teeth, " _Butch_ , what if -"

"What if what?" Butch calls back. He waits for Brick to shuffle over to the car. There are a few others around, but most of their neighbors had shoved the couch aside and left the building. It's early, Butch notes. Cold, mist on the ground still, the shadows long and dark. The sun has barely reached above the skyline yet. "Nothin's here, Red," Butch offhands. He gets into the car. Brick follows after a moment's hesitation. It's a hesitation they probably can't afford anymore. Butch lets him have it.

Brick starts reciting a list. Butch gets the car into gear. Soups, preferably; canned fruits, canned vegetables. Protein bars, too, those sound good. Non-perishable. Bottled water. Who knows if they could trust the faucets anymore. Who knows when their water, gas, electricity will be cut. "The government's a bitch like that," Glowering, Brick turns to stare out the window.

The streets are more clamored towards the malls and supermarkets. Staggering bodies; frothing bloody-rabidness and their skin sallow-sickly. Butch stares ahead. Doesn't bother swerving around alive corpses, and pays no attention when Brick hisses shock through a startled breath. "They ain't people anymore," Butch feels the need to say. Because saying _they're dead_ doesn't feel quite accurate, but they certainly ain't people anymore. They never felt like people to him, anyway. "You don't know that," Brick murmurs.

But then Butch runs over a once-was little boy and the topic is dropped. He knows all of this guilt will get him later. When he's asleep. When he's waking up. The images will smother his vision. How the little boy's glassy eyes looked pained, but his mouth was creaking inhuman noises, and his limp was from the bulging twist of her ankle. That tar-like blood stuck in his hair. Crusted 'round his mouth, sopping with the foam.

Or maybe that customer. The redheaded one, the one Butch left to die. Looked sort of like Brick in the sense of impeccable neatness, aristocratic sorta nose. The similarities stop there. It's enough for Butch to wake up in a sweat about. His neck torn open. Bits of it stuck to the front window. Choked, cut-off sort of croak. Brittle fingers gouging into his face. Teeth dislodged by strange strength, eyes rolling into his head. Sort of like _The Scream_ , that one painting – except there's another person there and they're digging in to a gourmet meal. Messily. Chunks of flesh. Gangrenous infection, sludge blood, flaking skin -

"Are you listening?"

Butch blinks. He glances to Brick, who gives him an unimpressed look. "Uh, sure," Butch ejects. He turns back to the road. _Thunk_. A wretched wail, scrabbling heard on the hood of his corolla. Ignoring the sound, Butch focuses on turning into a _Vons_ parking lot.

"We need to be careful." Brick's voice is hushed, this time. Butch doesn't have the same caution. "Yeah, I know." Then he turns off the car, pockets his keys, and slips out. Slams the door. Brick flinches. Stiffens, whirls just in time to watch a corpse's interest get piqued by the sound. Butch sighs, strolling around to the boot.

Nothing entirely useful stares back up at him. His toolbox – the biggest thing in there is a pipe wrench. Rusted red handle thing. He grabs it, tries it's heft in his hand. Unsure why, because he's used this thing time and time again. It's not like it's weight would've change. "Idiot, let's _go_ ," Brick huffs. Butch slams the boot of his car. Turns back to the sluggish corpse.

She could've been pretty, Butch thinks. The figure is there. Is she hadn't emaciated so rapidly, she'd've been pretty. Her knees knock together, rasped breaths. The second she's close enough – _whack_. Butch watches her crumple to the ground. Jaw swiped clean off. More of that black slick.

Brick's arm on his elbow pulls him back. "Idiot, let's go," Is repeated in a more breathless tone. Butch rolls his eyes, strolling along behind his younger cousin. They stick close. "What are we doin' again?" Butch asks, solely for the sake of getting Brick to calm the fuck down. He can't have a wild-worried little teen to look after right now. He needs his twenty-year-old cousin. With the tightly screwed on head. With the plans. Organized. Composed.

Butch twirls the wrench in his grip. Brings it close to sniff at curiously. Pungent; like garbage, almost. Rotten trash from behind an Italian bistro. Or something. (Is it obvious that Butch misses home?) He lets his wrench swing back down to his side. "We're going to grab a cart," Brick sighs, "Fill it with food, and...whatever else we might need. I'm thinking hygiene and first aid kit." Butch wrinkles his nose, nodding along. "Sounds a'ight," He chimes.

Two firm whacks and a green-looking Brick later, they're staring down an aisle of abandoned shopping carts and mostly full shelves. The place is vacant. Static fills the air; the announcement speaker being held down, maybe by a fallen object, or jammed in the rush to leave. Nothing's expired just yet. That's good, at least, but the spilled bleach and the dropped bottles reek. Brick's got the common sense to tug his shirt over his mouth and nose. Butch doesn't; he needs one of his hands free.

The cart gets filled quickly. Lots of cans. Turns out canned food isn't too popular outside of Thanksgiving and food-drive season. Like this, Butch can sort of pretend he hasn't already hit-and-run ten people. His hands are bloodless (relatively.)

Brick's just griping because they're going on a camping trip, maybe, something to do for the summer. They don't know any good camping spots because it's all new, but that's half the adventure. Santa Rosa, beyond Citiesville, has plenty of forests to offer. Hillside terrain. Wildlife galore. A beauty to explore, something they've never done or had time to do back in New York. Money might be a little tight, but it'll be good for both of them. Butch smiles a little. He'll spook his younger cousin with tales of towering black bears, and watch Brick look weary as he pries open a box of graham crackers for s'mores.

"What do you think?" Brick asks. Butch looks up, swinging his pipe wrench loosely. Brick holds up two packs of antibacterial wipes. Butch squints; they look the same. "...What's the difference?" Butch mutters.

Unimpressed, Brick rattles off something – and then he stops. His form stiffens; gaze somewhere over Butch's shoulder. With a sigh, Butch turns to face whatever it is. His wrench is ready, and the confused stuttering of his heart becomes prominent.

Butch lowers his wrench.

There's a girl standing there. Uncertain, lingering between nearing them and turning tail. "Uh – sorry," She starts, "I'm just. Well, you know. Nobody's here." Butch shrugs. He gives her a once over; petite, ruffled bow, weary. How old is she? Young, definitely. "That's okay," Butch starts – tries to sound light, but he's still bitter about the fact that they're _not_ going camping – "Y'got anybody to go home to, sweetheart?"

The girl frowns a little, before coming closer. She fiddles with her sleeves, "No. My sister's back south -"

"Good luck with that," Brick scoffs. Butch bites his cheek. The girl glowers slightly. She's no bigger up close; 5"6 at most, hair tangled in the ponytail it's tied back in. "...You not see the news?" He asks. She shakes her head. Brick clatters something behind them, probably dumping both packs of wipes into the cart. His voice is unforgiving, "Shit's fucked up down there. All those – things. They broke out down there."

A haunted expression washes over the girl's face. Her eyes glaze over slightly, before she closes them altogether and takes a breath. "I know," She says after a moment, "My sister...killed one of the _first_ things in our neighborhood." Butch arches a mildly impressed eyebrow.

"What's your name?" He asks. It's better than the grim route this conversation is taking. The girl shrugs, hugging herself, "Blossom Pritchet-Garcia." Butch feels his face split into a grin. He cuts off Brick before he can say anything: "I'm Butch, and this is my little cousin Richie _Dick_ son." Deep breath to avoid laughing. Another deep breath to fight glancing at Brick's face.

"That's _not_ my name," Brick hisses, "You said you'd stop fuckin' introducing me to people like that." Butch lets out a snort, tittering to himself as he innocently turns to look at a shelf. Blossom tilts her head, biting back a small smile, "Then...what is your name?" Brick puffs out his chest, adjusting his cap, "Richardson. Brick Richardson."

Butch snorts again, "Bond. James Bond."

Brick slams his sharp elbow somewhere in Butch's ribs. No, he doesn't choke. He clears his throat. Amusement lingers in the spaces between them, through the bleach and the wet floor signs. Blossom nods carefully, hands clasped in front of her, "Right, right. It's nice to meet you, _Brick_. And you, Butch." In response, Butch nods. He yanks a handful of little hand-sanitizers off the top shelf, dropping them into the cart.

"...Where are you staying, then?" He asks curiously. Blossom crosses her arms. She glances off to the side. "I was with a couple classmates, in a hotel. They -" A pause. Brick huffs impatiently, but Butch nudges the cart against him. The girl takes a second, before continuing: "They were…less fortunate. I've been hiding in here since."

Any mirth is sucked into a vacuum after that. Butch grins, and forces a bounce to his step as he jaunts down the aisle. His whistling carries through the empty space. "Welp!" He calls, "That sucks, don't it!"

Looking left, it's just more and more linoleum floors and flickering lights. Looking left, there's a creep juddering along the dairy section. Butch twirls his pipe wrench. "You could come with us!" He offers. Brick's exasperated sigh carries. Three paces, the thing's slow as it turns to him. _Swing. Crunch. **Thwack**._ Satisfaction shivers through him, quickly chased down with a douse of revulsion.

He doesn't linger on the body. He turns, and walks back to where Brick and Blossom are watching him with gray faces. Blossom drops her gaze to her feet. "Yeah," Brick mutters after a moment, "We're...not goin' anywhere any time soon." He puts a polite hand on Blossom's shoulder, "What do you think? It's safer here than going back down there."

Butch leaves Blossom to her inner conflict, and grabs the cart. He starts wandering towards the entrance of the store. He hears the two follow him.

"I – I think that'd be a good idea. For now." Brick makes a sound, "Well, let's hope you liked Campell's." There's a nervous, contrite little chuckle from Blossom. It sounds weary. What doesn't at this point? They step out into the outdoors; the sun has finally breached the skyline, shining hard onto the asphalt. Butch squints.

Maybe taking in Blossom will make up for everything else he's done so far. Butch frowns to himself. The cart rattles on the cracks, shaking in his grip. He forces another whistle out into the looming silence. The heavy feeling in his chest tries to break through his ribs, but he tucks it deeper with a forced exhale. That's not something he'll be able to work through. That's not something Butch will be able to confront in the daylight. Or ever. He chews his lip thoughtfully, starting to empty the shopping cart into the boot of his corolla.

"Butch -"

And anyway, feeling guilty isn't going to save anybody. He may think Brick is wrong on this whole not-migrating thing, but if they're going through with it, then they might as well do it _right_. And this is the start. Maybe they could reach out to others, too. Those who stayed behind. That also begs the question: who else got left behind?

"BUTCH!"

He looks up. Brick and Blossom are lingering half way out into the parking lot. Another frown forms; confused, Butch opens his mouth – a croak comes from behind him. Ah. That'd be why they're not in the car yet.

And – for the record – _no_ , he doesn't yelp when he turns and comes face to face with a phossy-jawed looking son of a bitch. "FUCKIN -" And a kick, and a swing, and a _crack_. Butch blinks owlishly. The corpse twitches. Thinned, greasy hair and sloughing sort of skin. Dried, wrinkled, but moist like puss from an infection. Rigid cheekbones and sunken eyes. Each pore gaping; mouth askew from the wrench colliding with its jaw. Mouth open – filmy, bloody mess bubbling out. Butch feels his eye twitch. Dammit. _Dammit_ , he said he wouldn't look.

" _This_ is why you need to focus," Brick snaps, tugging him by his shoulder. Butch snorts, rolling his eyes. His stomach ties itself into knots. Over and over again. Overlapping, knots getting stuck in other knots, a clusterfuck. A horrible, guilt-ridden clusterfuck. "Yeah, yeah." Butch flaps Brick's hand away. "Get in the car already."

Butch shoves the empty cart out into the parking lot. He shuts the boot, and watches Brick stalk around hurriedly to the passenger seat. Blossom, on the other hand, is hesitant. Her little plimsolls scuff the ground. Mouth in a tight line, she glances up at him, "...Are you alright?" _No_. But who is?

"Yeah," He smiles, "Yeah, 'm fine. C'mon." Butch nods towards the backseat of the car, "Before this place starts filling up." Maybe it will, maybe it won't. They don't know. But it's a valid concern, and it's enough that the girl nods and slips into the car.

A hand on his neck, Butch takes a cursory look around. Shadows creep alongside the mall across the parking lot. Butch purses his lips. Yeah; best they go before the place starts to gather company.

* * *

Blossom is eighteen years old, from Townsville in the San Diego county, and she really, _really_ , wants to find her little sister. "Well – not _little_ little; she's seventeen. And knowing her, she's already bitten off more than she can chew." That had been said with a bittersweet sort of smile, before fear drowned out the fondness that made her eyes light up. Of course, not that Brick was paying any attention to that.

No, the little asshole was busy brooding in the kitchen. Brains to Butch's brawn; scheming, planning, something something. "Right," Butch nods, "That's...that must be hard." Blossom nods. She bites her lip, toying with the hole in her tights. He grimaces a little, looking around.

"I don't know how long she'll – how long it'll be 'til she shows up. But I'm not sure I can trust that." Butch turns back, arching an eyebrow.

"So...what're you planning to do about it?" Blossom narrows her eyes, nodding to herself a little. "I have to go back and find her, obviously."

Brick's derisive scoff sounds from down the hall, "You really wanna go into that hell-fest?" Blossom opens her mouth to argue, but Butch sighs, "He's...right, y'know. Townsville was one of the places this, uh, this virus-thing originates from. Do you really wanna risk going back there?"

The girl quiets. She stares down at her lap. Butch can help but think she looks like Brick; the same thoughtful look, the nervous habit of picking at things, the tentative hum that she sighs out. "Not really," Blossom admits, "But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't at least try to find her. She's -"

"All you have left," Brick groans. Blossom frowns at his tone, before huffing. "Yes. She is." She crosses her arms, falling back into the cushions on their ratty couch.

Butch stands, stretching his arms above his head, "Who wants cereal?" Both redheads give him a scrunched-nose look. "What?" He asks, strolling into the kitchen, "We might as well still eat the regular food we have, first." Brick rolls his eyes, dragging his cap down over his face. After a moment, he tugs his cap off and lets his hair out of his ponytail.

He grabs a bowl from the cupboard. "I appreciate you taking me in, I do -" Blossom clasps her hands together again - "I just. I need to find my sister." Butch grabs the milk carton from the fridge, the cereal box from on top of it, "Well, I dunno, I'd be willin' to driv -"

"We're staying here. You can leave if you want, Pritchy." Dammit. Butch bonks his head against the cupboard, "Brick, for fuck sake." Blossom's incredulous voice pipes up: " _Pritchy_?" Oh lord. He drags a hand down his face, pouring the milk into his cereal. "Both of you,' He snaps. Butch rolls his eyes, turning to stare at them. He is the adult here, technically. The oldest one in the room.

"Why don't we give it a day and sleep on it?" It's barely ten in the morning at this point, so he nods to the television remote on the coffee table. "We can keep an eye on the news, and as far as I'm aware we still have wifi, so why don't we try and look at a couple different sources. _That_ way -" A pointed glance at Brick - "We can keep an eye on our options." This time he looks at Blossom, "An' I ain't sure what's gonna happen, but your lil' sis sounds like a tough broad. If she ain't bitten the dust yet, it doesn't sound like she will for a while."

Deep breath. Butch shoves the milk back in the fridge. Grabs a spoon, grabs his bowl, and strolls for the raggedy beanbag seated on the end of the coffee table. Both temperamental idiots look off in different directions. Sufficiently chastised. Well – as chastised as Butch cares about. He isn't good at being the responsible adult. That's Brick, out of the two of them.

That's why Brick was going to college. That's why Brick was gonna be the one with the well-paying job, and that's why Butch scraped by high school with a low gpa. Brick's the responsible one. Guy with the plan. Guy who's goin' places. Butch? Butch was meant to have the garage. The only thing he made of himself.

But Brick doesn't know every damn thing.

That's what Butch needs to remember.

"Let's just...take a breather, for now." When he gets two little nods, Butch turns to the television. He digs into his cereal. It's not lost on him how his cousin and his new charge watch raptly. Amber eyes glued to the screen. He doesn't pay nearly as much attention. Most of what's being said goes over his head. In one ear, out the other. A foul stench comes from his hand as he pulls the spoon up. Rot.

It's the hand he held the wrench in. Butch falters, and damn-near drops his bowl in his hurry to sit up. He tries not to gag. "Gonna shower," He decides. Why not use the commodities while they still have them, right? Brick snorts, "Was wondering when you were gonna realize." Butch snatches Brick's cap as he stalks past. Throws it somewhere deep into the crannies of the apartment.

Brick's growled _hey!_ paired with Blossom's soft giggle don't sound so bad. Just another Wednesday. Maybe Butch has a day off work, and Brick brought a school friend over. Just watching television, slumped into the corners of the couch. A slow day, maybe. Butch smiles to himself; contrition is cold in his teeth.

The bathroom tiles are cold when he takes his shoes and socks off. And that's when it hits him: he's been tracking mulch-blood and skin flakes into the carpet. "Shit," He hisses. It's all in his shoelaces. Blackish, reddish, gunked-up and grotty. He wrinkles his nose. Oh well. Oh well, it's not like it's gonna...kill anybody. Still. He makes a mental note to burn them, or something. His shoes, that is. Eventually. Maybe when he gets his hands on a better pair; those are his only shoes, for now, the old clunky sneakers he'd wear when he was scrubbing down the garage. Better than getting his work boots all bleached-out.

Sighing, Butch strips and gets in the shower. At least they still have water and electricity. It hadn't occurred to him how dependent they were on it. How high the electricity bill always was. He better not be getting billed for this shit. It's the apocalypse 'round here, what's the use in putting a price on shit nobody's gonna pay for?

Ah. That's why Brick says it's only a matter of time. Why provide something nobody's gonna pay for? The water gradually warms up on his shoulders. Shower head too low, same for the shower curtain. Unfortunately, that's a problem he faces just about anywhere. Makes him feel sorta like the elf in that one Will Ferrell movie.

Movies are a different thing entirely. He would throw one one if he didn't know Brick was gonna get pissy at him for it. No, Brick wants to watch the news. Does Blossom want to watch the news? The reminder that her sister is in corpse-city, maybe in trouble, maybe not. Maybe struggling, maybe not. Maybe dead. Maybe not. Butch frowns, lathering shampoo into his hair. He doesn't know what he'd do without Brick. Fuck, he'd be dead by now if he lost Brick. The stunt back at the superstore proves that. What a sobering thought.

So what's Blossom going through? Butch would be dead, that's fair enough. But Blossom? She seems like a smart girl. Almost finished highschool at this rate, right? She'd probably survive by herself. Or maybe – maybe she'd do something reckless in her loneliness, get herself injured or mauled. The idea of Blossom getting hit by his car forces his mind to jump tracks.

Her sister. Almost eighteen. Sounds like a little bit of a trouble maker. Almost like himself. Biting off more than she can chew. Did she pick up a bystander too? Seventeen, all by herself. Townsville is desert-country, after all, what horrors could be down there? No water, for one, he thinks. Nowhere to hide. No shelter.

Butch steps out of the shower. Cold to the core. Steam rises from underneath the shower curtain. The guilt wells up for a moment – except, not for people he's murdered. For the wild girl he's leaving all by herself the longer they wait. Just another thing he has to kick back down. Somewhere deep in his guts, stuck between his large intestine and his kidney. It'll have to do for now.

Impulsively gallivanting on down to dear old corpse-central isn't going to help anybody. But soon, this place is going to be depleted of what little there is to offer. And that's why they should've left. But no, Brick said, _no, we're gonna make camp and sit like ducks waitin' to be fucking shot,_ and Butch goes where Brick goes. Unfortunately for him, Brick isn't fucking going anywhere. So they'll die here. They'll starve, or die of dehydration. They'll get themselves killed out of desperation. Butch isn't sure whether he's content with that revelation or not. It's not like there's much else out there; the entire state's been quarantined, after all. But that doesn't mean they could at least travel north. Because – Brick is right. Everybody's fled north, away from the cause. It's a smart idea.

He towels off, tugs his clothes back on, and shuffles into the living room. The news is prattling on about something. " _\- vernment is providing so-called 'Safe Points' in quarantined states, to 'allow for fair chance for survivors._ " Butch pauses.

Blossom's breath is sharp, a hand clasped over her mouth. Brick has a notepad and pen, furiously scribbling as the next few tidbits of information are told: " _These Safe Points are in the following locations: Bellingham, Washington state..._ " Butch feels his heart cinch in his chest. His breath holds.

 _"...Rochester, New York state..."_

 _"...Morgantown, West Virginia state..."_

 _"...Cincinnati, Ohio state..."_

 _"...Crescent City, California state..."_

The news falls into the background. Butch stares; the woman keeps talking, blasé, reading off the papers in her hands. Blossom takes a deep breath, before putting her face in her hands. Brick's the one to break the silence: "Where the hell is Crescent City?"

"North," Blossom murmurs, "Completely opposite to San Diego." Butch feels a pang of bitterness shoot through him. Burning, like a shot of whiskey. ( _'We're doing our best', says government officials, 'to reach everybody. No man left behind'. We will have to see how that fairs out in the country's current crisis. Described as an epidemic, the country's top researchers, doctors, and scientists are being put to the test of finding a cure before the proclaimed 'zombie-virus' becomes an incurable pandemic_.) Butch bites his lip.

"There'll be a deadline," Brick predicts, "For this 'Safe Point' bullshit. Watch it be unreachable." Another silence dominates the apartment. Tension-filled, heated like melting molasses, watching locations get pointed on a map for the remaining cut-off states.

" _Our Vice President has announced a date for the Safe Points' cut-off. 'This is for the benefit of our limited military resources', he says, 'those who do not reach the Safe Points in time for pick-up will be deemed extraneous, and left behind'_." Butch feels sick to the bone. He curls his hands into fists, before shoving them in his pockets.

Extraneous; irrelevant, pointless. How fucking vile. How fucking despicable – but he should be expecting no less from those in power. He swallows harshly. "Oh my god," Blossom whispers from behind her fingers. Brick waits diligently for the deadlines to be rattled off. Pragmatic; muscles held taught. The pen trembles in his grip.

Static fills Butch's head. It feels like he's trying to breath it, sharp whites and blacks, caught in his throat. He takes a staggered breath. Another. And another. He turns away from the television. Leans heavily against the wall, runs a hand down his face. Dear god. _Dear god_.

" _Deadline for Crescent City, California state, will be August 1st -_ " Brick turns the television off after that. Slams his notepad on the coffee table. "Three weeks," He spits. "Three weeks and one day."

Butch swallows down bile. Flexes his hands in front of him; stares down at the dirt he couldn't get out of his nails. The callouses from years of heavy work. The hands that have killed, what, ten-odd people at this point? He grinds his teeth in frustration, rocking on his heels. After a moment, he moves to join the two in the living space. He flops down onto the beanbag. "We could get Blossom's sister in that time," he throws out there.

There's no guarantee that they could. Not at all, but they _could_. There's _potential_. Saving two people aren't going to make up for all the ones he kills, but it's better than saving nobody at all. They could find Blossom's sister.

"We don't know that," Brick dismisses. "It's safer to assume she's dea -"

" _No_ , it's not!" Blossom shrills. She stands from the couch, small fists shaking at her sides. Heated, she whirls on Brick, "It is _not_ safe to assume she's _dead_. You don't know her. Not like I do. She's _out there_ -" Blossom jabs a chipped nail to the window - "Struggling to find me! I _know_ her, and she'd be damned to go down without a fight!" Blossom shuffles in a circle, lost, breathing heavy.

With anger burning in her eyes, she scowls at Brick: "You can keep being a pessimist, or you can be a _realist_ , Brick. Yes, there is a chance – a _small_ chance – that my sister is…is gone. But there is a much _larger_ chance that she is still out there, getting by the only way she knows how: with _spite_ , and with as many people as she can carry."

The girl's intensity heats the room. Sun glares through the window, cutting through the stillness. Brick looks pinned where he sits. Nobody breathes. Nobody stirs. Nobody says a word.

That is, until Butch slurps loudly around a spoonful of choco puffs, "So, that's made our decision for us, huh Red?" Nonchalant, he glances over his shoulder at his cajoled cousin. Ruffled, like a cat. Those brown eyes snap to him, pupils barely pinpricks. "Right," Brick croaks out.

Satisfied, Blossom settles back into the couch cushions. She delicately toes off her plimsolls, bringing her knees to her chest. Her skirt teases the floor. "Thank you," She breathes out. A soft kind of melancholy drags over her features, and she looks forlornly out to the window. Butch nods, and resumes monching his cereal. He swallows, gesturing loosely with his spoon: "So what's your sister look like, anyway?"

There's a brief moment, before a phone is being slid onto the coffee table beside him. It's in a pink case, fluffy to the touch. A simple white pop-socket at the back. An image stares back up at him.

A family photo. It feels oddly intimate, as he picks up the phone and takes it in. Taken at some sort of event, scattered bits of confetti all over the ground. It seems to be a break in the crowd, taken on a pier maybe? A man to the left; tall and slender, black hair slicked back. A pair of green eyes, a polite sort of smile. Dressed nicely. A woman to the right; voluptuous figure, a teasing smile and voluminous curls obscuring a majority of her face. Elegant in a form-fitting blouse. Parents. Butch feels a tired little twitch to his mouth; positive or no, a sour sort of jealousy grapples at his ribs. A functional-looking family. Man, what he would've given for somethin' like that as a kid.

Two girls; Blossom in front of the mother, perhaps the shortest in the group photo. Her mother isn't much taller; they look almost like splitting images of each other. Fair skinned, dark eyes, copper hair, similar dress, too. Button-up shirt and a plain pleated skirt. Smart. Collected.

Her sister is the opposite. Tall like her father – a good head and shoulders taller than the mother. Boyish figure; slender and lean, scabbed knees and sun-deep skin. A wicked grin. Bright eyes, green and brilliant. Choppy black hair peaking out from a _San Diego Padres_ baseball cap.

"She looks like a mischievous lil' brat," Butch snorts. He can't take his eyes away from the picture. The family is easily split: Blossom's sister a carbon copy of their father, Blossom herself a carbon copy of their mother. A fond sigh from over his shoulder, "She is. But she comes by it honestly. Her dad used to be exactly like her, apparently." Butch arches an eyebrow – both at the mournful longing and _her dad._

At his look, Blossom rolls her wrist: "Step-sisters. that's her dad. He – he was a really good man, but. He, uh, he died a couple days after the first appearance of...those things. Out there." Butch feels something akin to sympathy course sluggishly through his veins. It's not overwhelming enough for him to offer more than a nod. A small nod. He turns back to her phone. "Right," He sighs gently.

The hours sort of blend together after that. Blossom drifts into sleep – it looks like she needs it, honestly; Butch doesn't know what she's seen or what she's been through in the past couple days, but he throws a spare blanket over her anyway.

Somewhere in that time, Brick nudges him to the bedroom. Brick's bedroom. Shuts the door, pulls the blinds. Pins Butch with a severe look, "Y'know what you just signed yourself up for?" Butch takes a second. He stretches tall, feels the sun warm on his back – even through the blinds. "Yup," He pops the 'p', "We're goin' on a road-trip during the end of the world."

Brick's snarl sears through him. " _No_ , Butch. You've dragged us _both_ into driving out aimlessly – _away_ from the very thing that's has a chance of saving us!" Frowning, Butch leans against the windowsill. He arches an eyebrow, leaning heavily on one arm, "Three weeks is enough time, Brick. San Diego is somthin' like a nine-hour drive. Two days tops, there n' back." His cousin shakes his head, hand coming to tug his ponytail loose.

" _No_ ," Brick hisses in that condescending way. Smile too toothy to be friendly, patronizing sing-song, "You're going to drive us straight into _cities_ totally fuckin' teeming with danger, and directly to the source!" The redhead flops onto his bed. The mattress groans with the motion. The pile of books topples over. Brick puts his hands to his face; his next words are muffled, "And we're going to _die_ , Butch, because you feel sorry for some stranger's sob-story."

Butch presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to hold back an acidic comment. Brick sits up, staring into him, "You need to think! _Think!_ " Brick smacks his palm against his head. Wide-eyed and stressing through his teeth, Brick looks crazed. Hysterical. And _this_ is fear.

Butch takes a breath. This is the fear Butch was waiting to settle in. He'll admit, he thought he had more time before it happened. Maybe a couple more days. "Brick," Butch starts. The sound of his name sobers the younger man. "We're going south. I don't give a _fuck_ about that damn Safe Point. We both know it's bullshit. I'd rather try and get this girl, n' whoever she's toting along with her, then leave knowin' all I did was kill, an' kill, an' kill – not _once_ tryna save anybody."

"Isn't one person enough?" Brick implores.

"Is it?" Butch asks. Of course Brick wouldn't get it. Of course. Butch runs a hand down his face, before yanking the blinds up. The afternoon sun cuts through the darkness of the bedroom. Brick winces a little at the sudden change. Uncaring, Butch slams open the window and throws his hand to the streets below. "Look at it, Red."

The streets are overflowing. Corpses staggering all over the roads; a chorus of pained, echoed noises drift to meet them. The stench is pungent when they're all clumped together. Sun on dead skin; the rot intensifies. "Out there -" Butch points beyond the city, to the long stretches of road into nowhere - "There ain't gonna be _nearly_ as many of them fuckers as there are here." Brick is silent. He moves to stand beside Butch, staring the several stories down. Butch waits. And waits. And waits. (Brick's throat bobs with his harsh swallow, arms coming to fold over his chest. And this is where Butch hits him:)

"Nobody's gon' be driving southward, Red." he has a point, he knows he does. Nobody's gonna be driving south. Everybody's gonna be heading north, and to be honest, most of them are probably going to be easy to avoid. "Roads're gonna be clear, and that's all...desert. Down there. It ain't like we can get cornered and die. Not like we can jus' sit around here and let this swarm us." _This_ being the milky-eyed not-dead things.

A beat. Brown eyes looking mahogany-type red in the sunlight. "Don't call me that," Brick sighs after a second. A grin splits Butch's face in two. "Yeah?" He holds out his pinky finger.

Brick stares at it unblinkingly. Butch watches him go through the motions: skepticism, thoughtful, disbelief, determination. Brick laces their pinkies. They shake once, and release. "Yeah."

"ROAD-TRIP!" Butch whoops.

"Shut the fuck up," Brick huffs.

* * *

Blossom's eyes glisten with tears of gratitude when Butch tells her to get ready. She springs to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck. "Thank you so much," She mumbles, before pulling back. A deep breath, a sniff; she pats down her skirt and smiles up at them. She nods to Brick, "Thank you, too. I know this wouldn't have been possible if you hadn't agreed to it." Brick only nods back.

Of course, with long journeys comes the need for supplies. What they have isn't great. What they have is what they scrounged this morning. Blossom, wonderful mind she has, suggests: "Are there others in the building? I'm – I don't condone stealing, but...if nobody's using it..." An innocent little shrug.

Butch's pipe wrench comes in handy the first few doors they kick open. Clearing their own floor – the top one – is the best, and safest idea for now. They knock initially. It quickly becomes apparent that nobody is home. Not on this floor, anyway. The apartment building they live in isn't the greatest. Shoddy hall lights, crappy carpeting. Butch finds himself grimacing at the plaster that plumes into the air. Gross. Not good for breathing, either.

He leaves his two geniuses to brainstorm, whilst he does a cursory check. This is the third apartment they've snooped 'round so far. They've got nothing. Well – this place belonged to that old diddy Margaret; she may have something of use. If money was still a matter to Butch, he may've found interest in her jewelry box. But, since it's not, he focuses on other things. Old ladies have canned food. Right?

Canned _cat_ food, anyway. Said feline hisses at him from the counter. "Fuckin' pest," Butch hisses back, waving his wrench. The cat backs into the corner. Butch digs through cupboards; oddly enough, they're empty. He frowns. He turns to the cat accusingly, before sighing and turning to the fridge. "Do we need pepto bismol?" He calls out.

Who the fuck has pepto bismol anymore? Isn't that shit bad for your liver? He sniffs the pink bottle, before shoving it back in the fridge. Nothing non-perishable. "No," Blossom chimes, "But look around for vitamins or medication!" And that's just what Butch does. He strolls out of the kitchen with a handful of painkillers and vitamin c (chewable orange-flavored things.) Blossom has a tin in her hands. An old _Roses_ chocolate tin. He arches an eyebrow. "Sewing stuff," She chirps. He frowns, but doesn't question.

Brick emerges from the bathroom. He holds up more pill packets – antibiotics and something that looks spray-salve – and sighs, "We should get a backpack, or something." And, y'know, that ain't a half-bad plan.

The entire floor is rummaged in under an hour. Only one time did they stall, and that was in the apartment on the other end of the hall. A man, dead in his chair; dog foaming at the mouth with his guts dragged along the floor. Poor guy was whimpering in the corner, convulsing and disjointing his hips. It'd been something Butch hadn't wanted to see. But then again, who wants to watch an animal suffer?

And that's why nobody stopped Brick from killing it.

Untouched. Not a word said. Brick pushed the heavy, boxy, 70s style television onto the dog's head. _Crunch_. Butch felt his heart twinge. His mind wandered someplace dark, for a moment. Why is it different for an animal? Why is it _out of necessity_ when he kills a once-was person, but it's _out of mercy_ when he kills a once-was pet? Why is it like that? His heart aches more for a rabid animal than it did for any of the innocents he knocked dead. Except, Butch never thought about the answers, because Blossom ushered him briskly through to the kitchen. They piled their arms with whatever they could and left. Nobody talked on the way back.

Tweezers, sewing kit, sterilizing wipes per Blossom's insistence. More bottles of water. On top of the twenty-pack Butch lugged from the car (available due to the summer, and California heat.) Canned food, dried food, and the fruits that are unlikely to expire for a while. A more expansive first aid kit.

Butch stares down at it. There's his toolkit, on to of the medical books found in the student's apartment across the hall. Batteries. So many batteries. In unopened packets, or already used, it didn't really matter. Those shitty little key-ring flashlights you can get. "Better than nothing for now," Brick sighed.

A map. Crammed in the stack of letters in the single mother's apartment, by the door. She'd had a shit-ton of jarred goods, but they didn't take much of it. Glass wasn't worth the risk. Most of it was baby food, anyway. The map is convenient enough to show direct routes; all the way from Crescent City to Chula Vista. Blossom was already working on marking the routes, the ones they'd need to stick to; the fastest shortcuts, all of that. "This is the furthest I've ever been," She admits, "Before this, I'd only been to Carlsbad."

"So why're you out here all by yourself then?" Brick mutters. Blossom artfully tucks loose strands of her hair behind her ears, shrugging with a shoulder, "Like I said, it was a school trip. We got to visit the college in the area, only the highest of the high, you know?" She takes on a wistful tone, clicking the pen for a moment. "My sister, she thought it was a stupid idea from the get-go. Her...our dad, he died around the time of my departure. My mom's, too."

Butch frowns at that, "So you just left her by herself?" Blossom tries to repress the guilt-ridden grimace, but Butch sees it clear as day. It's the same face he made in the mirror. "I couldn't give this up," She whispers. And, fuck, does she sound like Brick. It makes Butch's throat burn. With resentment? With grief? He doesn't know.

So he turns back to poking around for a backpack. It's the one thing they didn't come across on this floor. The conversation lulls to a stop. The majority of it is Brick and Blossom talking about what else they need, or may need, or _want_ for those 'just in case' type of scenarios. Butch eventually reclines into his beanbag and lets his eyes close. His breathing evens out. The threat of sleep is nagging at him, but then the memory of _whack crunch thud_ jolts his eyes open again. He sighs, pulling his arms across his chest.

"What's the plan, Red?" He drawls.

"We'll leave early tomorrow," Brick yawns. He hadn't realized how much time had passed. Butch stares up at the slow-spinning ceiling fan, the yellow bulb staring back at him. It's dark outside. The building seems to come to life; creaking, waning, scrabbling from the floors below. He doesn't remember those floors being so occupied. They hadn't been since Debby left. Since Debby got bitten into. Butch bites his tongue.

"We'll pack the car while it's still dark, like we did this morning. If it's anything like this morning, we'll leave before the sun is fully up and drive on relatively clear roads. They don't seem to gather until the sun is up." Butch mulls over the idea. It's a safe bet. Blossom sits back on her elbows, tugging her hair from its ponytail. She ties her ribbon around her wrist. "They may still have functioning a circadian rhythm," She muses, "As in, their internal clocks may still be under the assumption that at a certain time, they...well, they don't _sleep_ , but...maybe become...inactive?" There's an uncertainty in her tone that Butch mirrors internally. Brick runs a hand through his hair, hair-tie around his own wrist. "It's...a start," He allows. Blossom nods, clearly not satisfied with the theory.

Butch grunts. He twists on the beanbag, pillowing his head under his arm. His legs are spread on the floor. "An' then we'll follow the map," He murmurs. The girl nods, "Yes, then we'll follow the map."

"Though," She hums, considering, "It might be better if we try to avoid the largely-populated areas and such." Brick arches an eyebrow, "And how do we do that?" Butch snorts into his elbow. He rolls onto his back, stretching for the ceiling. Brick glowers at him.

"We drive around the cities, dumbass," Butch yawns. He sits up, rubbing his tired eyes, "That means we need an off-roader, though." Just the idea gets his hopes up. What he'd do to trade that shitty fucking corolla in for something _good_. Something big, and fierce, and withstanding. Brick blinks at him for a moment, "...You've got a car in mind." Butch nods eagerly, "It's this huge fuckin'..." He gestures with his hands - "It's an old-series defender! _Real_ metal, big-ass wheels that'll drive over that brush, n' stuff. Lotsa space. Diesel, good for long distances, too."

Brick ponders. Blossom perks up at the idea, before cocking her head, "You'll need the keys for it." True. Hot-wiring it ain't gonna keep the thing running for long. It'll eat up that diesel when it isn't driving. Butch purses his lips, frowning, "...I think I know who owns it. They live – or _lived_ , I dunno – in the building. Third floor."

"Cool," Brick quips, "You can go scrounge 'round for the keys, then."

Butch whines, "Oh c'moooon, Red. Don't make me go alone, damn."

"You're a twenty-one year old man, Butch," Brick smirks, "Can't you go by yourself like a big boy?" Butch frowns. He puffs out his cheeks, feeling his neck heat up. The embarrassment creeps onto his face the longer he stalls. Blossom makes an uncertain sound, "...Shouldn't we stay together?"

"Yeah," Butch huffs, "Shouldn't we stick t'gether? Y'know, power in numbers?" Brick sighs – more of a groan. Two against one; he knows he's lost. Brick peels himself from the armchair. "Fine, let's go get these damn keys."

Butch stands, picking up his pipe wrench from the floor. He toes on his shoes once more – gunked-up and grotty as they are, and heads for the door. Blossom and Brick stay behind him. It's enough of a confidence booster as it is reassurance. Yes, he's the oldest. Yes, he's the biggest. Yes, he's the stupidest. It makes sense that he goes first. But the fact they have confidence in _him_ , that he'll protect them, that he's responsible enough to go first? That's enough. All he wants is to keep people safe. Keep those close to him safe. It's the least he can do.

"Let's go get these damn keys," Butch chuckles.


End file.
